


Logic

by scrub456



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Barely worth mentioning, Boys Being Idiots, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Slice of Life, The Thing With The Peas, The premise is silly, Tiny Angst, Towel Day 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 08:16:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14786795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: Sherlock proposes a kitchen experiment. Results may vary.“All opinions are not equal. Some are a very great deal more robust, sophisticated and well supported in logic and argument than others.”― Douglas Adams, The Salmon of Doubt





	Logic

“Alright, Sherlock?” John nudged his office door closed with his foot, balanced the receiver of his desk phone between his shoulder and his ear, and started shoving files in drawers and everything else in his work bag. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“Nothing's wrong. I'm perfectly fine.” Besides sounding distracted, Sherlock really did sound fine.

“Damn it, Sherlock. They told me I had an urgent call.”

“It _is_ urgent, John. I needed your input, and you weren't answering your mobile.”

“I'm at _work,_ Sherlock.” John dropped into his desk chair. “Urgent, for most people, means emergency.”

“Your first mistake was making assumptions…” Sherlock fumbled his phone but kept talking, and John could make out familiar background noises.

“I didn't hear anything after assumptions. Where are you? Are you at Tesco?”

“Obviously. And I _said_ I need you to stop on your way home tonight and pick up all the ingredients to make your thing with the peas. You're cooking dinner tonight.” Sherlock was talking to someone else then, the conversation muffled.

“If you're there, why don't you pick them up?”

“It has to be you. And I need you to time how long it takes.” John could hear Sherlock step outside then. “Buy only components for dinner. Keep the receipt.”

“Special occasion is it?” John knew his snarky arse tone never had an impact on Sherlock. It didn't stop him from using it.

“Experiment.”

“Care to elaborate?” John sighed. “Because I'm not going to go to all the trouble just for you to…”

“That's it precisely! Meal preparation is a great deal of trouble.” Sherlock actually sounded excited.

“Not that you'd know,” John mumbled.

“While at Tesco getting milk for another experiment…”

“You got milk?”

“For an experiment. Please pay attention.” Sherlock’s eye roll was practically audible. “I found a packaged version of your risotto, already prepared.”

“No, those box mixes are disgusting. No, Sherlock.”

“It's not that. Nor the chemically enhanced freezer version. I found it in the produce section.” Sherlock must have gotten a cab. “I asked an associate. This brand is prepared fresh. All organic. Vegan. Non GMO. And precisely measured for two portions.” Sherlock actually laughed. He was positively giddy. “You know how I appreciate things being precise.”

John leaned back as far as his chair would go. “Sherlock, first of all, if you already bought dinner, why do you need me to make mine? And secondly, and this is really more a statement of fact, those prepackaged things are never as good as they advertise. And they're expensive.”

“I need a controlled comparison. You'll prepare yours tonight. Tomorrow I'll prepare mine. I believe my sample to be superior to anything you could produce, based solely on quality of ingredients, and time spent in preparation and clean up. Imagine the hours we'll save not having to cook. And the space we'll save not having to purchase ingredients.”

“Is all of this simply to keep me out of _our_ kitchen?”

“I need _my_ workspace, and your bloody insistence on proper nutrition has proven to be an unnecessary frustration for both of us.” John could hear Sherlock talking to the driver and then fumbling for his keys. “Really, John, this experiment will be for your benefit. You'll have meals without the work, and you won't have to fight me for space. You'll appreciate that, I'm sure.”

“Sherlock, I like to cook. And I thought… When we're both in the kitchen, I think it's kind of nice.”

“You clearly don't remember the last time.”

“That fire last time was your fault!” John huffed.

Sherlock hummed. “But you were in my way the entire time. A hazard while I was working with dangerous conditions. With this experiment, we'll prove my way is superior. The same results, without the extra distraction.”

The petty part of John's mind wanted to draw parallels, to convince him this was all a metaphor for his actual value, or lack thereof, in Sherlock’s life. That this was the beginning of the end. In reality, John didn't think Sherlock even realized what those words sounded like in his matter of fact tone, or how a sentimental idiot like John would perceive them. He had to let it go for now. He cleared his throat and tried to sound unaffected. “Fine, challenge accepted. Now, I need to get back to work.” He hung up before Sherlock could respond.

* * *

 

John had come right in and given Sherlock his receipt and shopping time. He had spent more time and more money than Sherlock had. His point was being proven beautifully.

There was only one problem. The longer John was in the kitchen, the less Sherlock wanted to be right. The kitchen was warmer, more inviting, with John in it. Sherlock wasn't sure if that was just because of the heat from the cooktop, or maybe it was the additional body heat in the small space. Perhaps the glass of wine John had handed him as soon as he’d started cooking. Sherlock suspected it was a combination of all three.

It was brighter too. John liked to work with more lights on than Sherlock was used to, true, but his experiment wasn't in a critical phase, so he allowed it. It wasn't _just_ the lights, though. As always, John himself proved nearly incandescent, his smile bright and eyes shining (also a result of the wine? -- Sherlock needed more proof, so he offered to pour them both more). And John always knew just the right questions to ask about his day, about his experiments, to cause Sherlock to reevaluate his equations. Those questions revealed an obvious error, and Sherlock solved the problem he'd been stuck on all day.

At some point, and Sherlock could not pinpoint exactly when, but he definitely blamed the wine, he found himself fully engaged in John's idle chatter. He stirred while John chopped. Washed up dishes and utensils as John finished with them. And watched in fascination as John did it all from memory. He never measured, but everything always seemed perfect. Including the baked stuffed apples he made for dessert.

John had only shrugged. “I saw the recipe and wanted to try it. Since I'll probably be banished from the kitchen tomorrow, I figured there was no time like the present.”

He wasn't sure, but Sherlock didn't think the heavy feeling in his chest after that had anything to do with the wine.

When the food was finished, they sat together, crowded into a tiny cleared corner of the table. They finished the wine, and Sherlock had a second bowl of the risotto.

“This has always been my favorite of your recipes,” Sherlock mumbled around a bite.

“I'm glad.” John smiled, though he seemed a bit sad. He stood up then to clear up their dishes and sent Sherlock to the sitting room with mugs of tea. John entered then with their dessert, vanilla ice cream topped the apples, and Sherlock had never tasted anything better.

He just wanted to savor the moment. The warmth and light and spice and _joy._ Then John, ridiculously meticulous, faithful John, recounted his calculations for the evening. Total time spent, three hours and counting, since they were still talking about it. The cost was surprising, because after all the servings were figured out, some set aside for John's lunch the next day, and a few servings frozen for future lunches, they just about equalled out. John's was even less per serving if they subtracted the the cost of the dessert, because that had been a last minute addition.

“I guess it'll come down to taste.” John offered Sherlock that sad smile. He finished the washing up, turned the lights back down, wished Sherlock a good night, and disappeared up to his room.

Sherlock wasn't sure why, but finishing this experiment had lost its appeal.

* * *

 

The next day Sherlock couldn't stand to be in the kitchen. Couldn't bear the thought of running an experiment. He tortured his violin, and by extension, Mrs. Hudson. He paced the flat. Showered. Raged at the idiots on the telly. Organized his email inbox. Tossed and turned on the couch. He watched out the window for nothing in particular.

John no more than walked into the flat, and Sherlock jumped into action. The meal took mere moments to heat and dish up. Sherlock cleared a bit more space on the corner of the table. The servings were meagre, precise measurements for two. They finished up, the conversation pleasant but shallow, and they barely made a dent in the bottle wine. John was washing their dishes and Sherlock making tea for the store bought biscuits he'd got as an afterthought.

It was all rather pathetic. And John was strangely quiet. Sherlock wasn't surprised when Lestrade called John to meet him at the pub, and John jumped at the invite.

“Guess it's settled, then?” John asked softly as he pulled on his coat.

“What is?” Sherlock refused to look at him. He didn't want to see that sad smile.

“The experiment. Your food was… okay. Good enough, I suppose. More time for your experiments.” John shrugged. “I suppose congratulations are in order.” He didn't wait, just slipped through the door and pulled it closed behind him.

The terrible pre packaged risotto sat heavy in his stomach. He'd hated everything about that dinner. Most especially the part when John left.

Without too much thought, Sherlock grabbed his coat, flung himself through the flat door, and crashed right into John.

“John! What…”

“I…” They spoke at the same time. John motioned for Sherlock to continue.

“I hated that experiment.”

John laughed. “Yeah?”

“Not the first part. Your part. Last night was… it was perfect. It was warmth, and light, and us together. And tonight was… The opposite. Terrible. Cold and distant.”

“It wasn't so bad…”

“All I could taste was the plastic it came in, which I now realize is probably a bit not good.” Sherlock finally met John's eyes. “I hated it. I don't know how you even managed to eat it.”

John just laughed. “And the kitchen?”

“I like when we both work in there. It's like a dance, or when we're at a crime scene. We move together so well. You ask the right questions. Your thing with the peas is my favorite of any food prepared by anyone.” Sherlock paused and took a deep breath. “You make me feel warm.”

“Yeah?” John's smile wasn't sad.

Sherlock nodded and laid his hand over his heart. “Right here.”

“Sherlock, I have a confession.” John took a few steps nearer.

“Do you?”

“I decided to do my own experiment. That wasn't Lestrade. It was a wrong number.”

“John?” Brow creased with confusion, Sherlock took a step toward John.

“I like cooking with you. Last night…” John huffed a laugh. “You made me feel warm too.” He placed his hand over his own heart.

“What was the experiment, John?”

“I hypothesized, well, hoped really, that after that dinner… Well, I wanted you to come after me. When you proposed _your_ experiment, I thought it meant you were bored of me. But if you came after me, maybe…”

“John! No, I just… I think we need a bigger kitchen.” He stepped right up to John. “A few more fire extinguishers. And maybe…”

“Yeah?”

“More time in close quarters. For experiment sake.”

“Of course.” John laid his hand over Sherlock’s heart. He slid his arms around and pulled him into a hug. “And how do you feel now? Still cold?”

“Getting warmer.”


End file.
